Mining For Beauty
by Chocolate Herrings
Summary: A fairy tale that's been unearthed. Be forewarned, it's a dark tale.


**Mining for Beauty**

No one expected to find anything of value at the excavation site. They had spent days there already, spirits weakening, and bodies weary. In the stark cold light of false dawn they milled about, preparing once again to dig.

A man steps out from a large tent in the center of the camp. His name is Peter. He's a professor of History, a rather mild man, well mannered, handsome in a conventional sort of way, the perfect Englishman. He's here on business, and he is the only one who believes there is something here, something that if found, could change the world. This is his passion; he has spent his life searching for it. He has traveled the world over, and now he has found himself in a small abandoned village in northern Russia. Rumors of tzars and rebellions had drawn him

"A perfect day, is it not, Jonathon?" He asks. John glares at him. He has told Peter thousands of times that Jonathon is his fathers' name. His father had died last summer, after he caught a deceptively simple cold in Greenland. _He_ _believed all of this BS_, John thought fiercely, _but I'm never going to be sucked into its madness_. The only reason he was accompanying the professor was that it was his fathers' last request. He remembered that moment of agony as he held his fathers hand, watching his eyelids quiver, pale and blue-veined, as the trial of keeping his eyes open had become too great. And of course, those last words that had been like throwing dirt in a wound that might have healed. There were no loving goodbyes from this man, only the quiet trembling command that John must carry on his work and succeed. His fathers love, as well as his untimely death, had abandoned John alone in the world, but not without direction. John's mother had left when he was very young; his father told him that she simply didn't understand the immense consequences that this finding could have. John didn't blame her. What kind of woman sat at home quietly while her husband spent his days and nights on the search for something that would never be found.

"Jonathon?" All the professor receives is an angry grunt.

Peter sighs, "Come. They are waiting for us at the site."

As they slowly trudge down through the rocks, they become aware of the sudden startling silence. Although this place seems to suck cheer and fill a man with foreboding, there is always a hum of voices, people calling for brushes, or reporting the findings of a certain hole, as well as the quiet conversations murmuring through the air like the hushed sound of bees among rustling leaves. They share a quick glance and hurry towards the ridge of the hill. As they reach the crest, they both come to a stand still. Every digger in the camp seems to have congregated in the small bowl that has been dug out. They are all standing around something that neither of the men can make out. A young female digger glances up; she catches sight of the two men and her eyes widen. She turns, tapping her neighbor on the shoulder. He too looks up; and slowly the circle begins to widen and a path clears. John looks over at the professor, gauging his reaction. Peters face is white and his hands are clenched in fists at his sides, he takes quick shallow breaths.

"Well, shall we go?" John asks, in tones of false joviality.

The decent is harder since the sides are slick with the icy rain from the night before packed down by the feet of countless people. John keeps his eyes on the ground, trying to keep his footing on the tricky terrain. Suddenly, he stops. There in front of him is a foot. It's filthy, covered in dirt, yet still undeniably, a foot. His gaze travels farther up, to the legs, also smeared with grime, to the decidedly feminine hips and torso, until his eyes reach her face. It's soiled and grubby yet the beauty shines through, long black eyelashes sticky with dust, lips shiny with mud, cheekbones high, with a slightly pointed chin giving her the look of a faerie princess who has fallen asleep underground. A breath stirs her slender form.

"It's her. She's real, she's here!" Peter falls to his knees, taking the girls limp hand he kisses it, and reverently breathes, "Sleeping Beauty…"

They've washed her up now and clothed her, but still she sleeps and no one can wake her. The professor said that no one should touch her, yet every man in camp found some reason to come see the beautiful young woman. It is hard to believe that she really lives; she resembles an ideal work of art, a vision of perfection, yet her chest rises with each breath, and a pulse throbs in her neck. Peter has given up his tent to the resting princess, although it doesn't make much of a difference since he spends most of his time sitting next to her bed. He doesn't touch her, doesn't speak, just stares. John is beginning to worry; Peter hasn't eaten in the past three days since they have found _Her_. John refuses to call her Sleeping Beauty, as most of the staff does. He agrees it is a most strange phenomenon, but he still won't believe the irrational explanation of a child's fairytale. It just is not possible. Heaving a sigh, he grabs a knife for the professor to cut his bread with and deposits it on the plate of food.

When he enters the tent, Peter looks up. Seeing that it is only John, his gaze fixes back to the girl.

"You have to eat some time." John says, dropping the tray on the table next to the professor. "You can't go on like this. You will get sick and you will die. Just like my father. She isn't worth it."

At this, Peter stirs. "Not worth it?" His voice is weak and rasps painfully, "Not worth it? Is it worth living if you cannot see the sun, or to live forever in night and never see the goddess that is the moon, with her handmaidens the stars? She is everything to me. She is why I live." His eyes are glassy, shining with frantic energy.

"No, she is killing you." John says bluntly.

"Then it is an honor to die for the most beautiful woman in the world." Peters breathing is uneven, and his hands shake as he reaches out to touch her face. Slowly, he rises from his chair, staggering slightly he leans down over her. With a gentle tenderness, he kisses her ruby red lips. Lifting his head, he falls back into his chair and looks up at John. His eyes glint with tears and a despairing smile crosses his face.

"She will not ever wake, John. Her prince is dead."

They bury Peter in the hollow where they found Her. It seemed fitting that he should lie in death where his life's passion had lain in sleep. There is a bittersweet smell in the air as John carefully crosses the professors' arms and lays single thorny rose upon his chest, a moment of silence broken only by the muffled sobs of a few dedicated workers. John looks around and realizes…he just doesn't care. He knows he should be sad, depressed at least, but as he digs deep into his heart, he finds nothing. There is not one tear to be shed for the wasted life of so foolish a man.

He turns angrily on his heel and stalks away from the mourning crowd. Heading for his tent, he stops, caught by some invisible line that pulls his feet from their set path luring him to stop and see what called to him. In moments he stands in front of Peter's tent staring at the flap that passes as a door and wondering at himself. He had thought that he would never want to look upon Her again, never want to see Her pale, unearthly, killing beauty that had stolen so much from the world. First his father, then Peter, and if tales were true, then countless men all dying because of a deadly rose, a beautiful, perfect, lethal, rose. Now here he stood at the doorway and felt a need rise up in him, he must see her, just once more, just to make things right, to conclude the story.

He slowly pushes aside the brown canvas that covers the entrance and steps inside, eyes adjusting to the light. She still lies on the mattress in the middle of the tent, breathing peacefully, not knowing or caring at the pain that she's caused. The professors' abandoned lunch is also there, a reminder of how suddenly things change. John comes to stand next to her, moving carefully as though trying not to wake a sleeping child.

He kneels by the head of her bed, gazing down at her innocent face. Reaching down he runs a finger down Her cheek, and cautiously bends down until he can feel her phantom breath against his mouth.

Suddenly he is possessed with a furious anger, his blood fizzes in his veins and his hands tremble. Snatching up the forgotten knife from the professors' lunch, he slices away the white cotton shift the she wears. Rage spun into a deep emotion re-arranged into lust, he falls on her like a beast, grasping, sweating, bruising, and base. Sounds fade in and out of hearing, colors fall like stars from the sky into a useless blur on the ground. Pain. Hate. A frenzy of hunger.

Gasping, he finally places his lips to hers, and feels her lashes flick against his cheek. He hates himself, suddenly, feeling her body take in deep, hacking breaths. Crying out, he spasms in a twisted mixture of pleasure and pain clutching her perfect form to his sweating chest, as he gasps for air he realizes that he is still clutching the hilt of the forgotten knife in his fist…the blade buried deep in Her back. Blood pools on the white bed sheets, and stains Her golden hair to a coppery red-brown. Her eyes are wide and staring, bluer than the sky on a summer's day. As she shudders out her last breath they gloss over, staring at him, accusing him, even in death.

Staggering away from the sight of her naked body, the tip of the knife sticking up from her belly, his breathing uneven, legs weak with revulsion, throat closed in horror, he glances frantically around the room, searching for some form of salvation, an object of some kind that will wake him from this gory nightmare. As he realizes that nothing is going to save him, this is no dream, he gives a hysterical laugh. "Sleeping Beauty, sleeping beauty, pricked her finger, got immortality." He sings. "See what you get for being beautiful? Curses, pricks, rape, an unnaturally long life, and at the end, a violent death. Is it worth it?" Finally, he stumbles to the tent door, hesitating before turning around again and grinning madly. "Sleep well in death, Sleeping Beauty."


End file.
